


Hero

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, F/F, Hogwarts Seventh Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: To her fellow Slytherins, Pansy is a hero. It's not as glamorous as she imagined.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22
Collections: Super Rare Summer 2020





	Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Fairest of the Rare's Super Rare Summer, where authors are writing stories for ships with fewer than five fics on AO3. The prompt for today is Pansy Parkinson/Angeline Johnson. This is unbeta'd and all mistakes are my own.

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Being a hero isn’t as glamorous as she’d imagined.

Pansy’s housemates surround her, clapping her on the back and giving praise for bravery in offering Potter to the Dark Lord. Actually, she’s been nothing short of bloody terrified and handing over the gangly git had appeared to be the quickest, easiest way to end her own suffering.

Pansy is like that; selfish to a fault, and aware of it enough to leverage it to her advantage. Indeed, sacrificing Potter would have been a small price to pay for her own peace—she’d live just fine under the Dark Lord’s regime. Pureblood, gorgeous, just enough gumption to make her appealing to any wealthy heir who’d have her.

Now, though, standing in the common room surrounded by  _ her _ kind, Pansy detests having spoken up in front of McGonagall and all her goody-two-shoes Order of the Phoenix members. Not only is she receiving attention for aforementioned gumption, but now that Potter isn’t being handed over to the Dark Lord, she’s likely to face backlash once they’re allowed out of the dungeons.

Bollocks to that, she decides as Blaise’s hand closes around her shoulder. His baritone laugh follows her all the way out of the dungeons until she’s pressed into an alcove to hide from rogue spellfire. They’re really going at it now, and the atmosphere outside of the dungeon is fraught with fear. It’s palpable from both sides as they zip by her, aware of Pansy’s presence, firing off spell after spell. The smoke is so thick in the corridor Pansy has to cover her mouth and nose in order to sneak through the school.

When she locks eyes on the back of Potter’s head—because who wouldn’t recognize that God-awful mess of hair that sticks up in every bloody direction—Pansy freezes. If he turns, she’s dead; he’ll have her raked over coals for what she’s done to him. So, she tip-toes back to the safety of the shadows until she bumps into something soft, something—someone—who breathes in her ear.

“Pansy Parkinson,” The deep but feminine tone is familiar, though Pansy isn’t able to summon the name of its owner.

She swallows hard around a knot in her throat and steels her nerves before turning towards the sound of the voice. Tall, fit, and crackling with magical energy: Angelina Johnson stands toe-to-toe with her.

“You left Hogwarts two years ago,” Pansy says, and immediately wants to cast  _ Silencio _ on herself for being so obtuse as to remind the girl when she finished school.

Angelina nods, her hand still wrapped tight around her wand. Pansy notices then the stance; feet parted, hips set, shoulders square; Angelina’s ready for a fight.

“I’m unarmed. That disgusting caretaker took my wand.” Her lips pulled into a grimace as she imagined his grimy hands all over her perfectly polished wand. She’d have to burn it once it was returned to her.”

“What’re you doing in the corridor then?” Angelina’s chin rose, eyes narrow and suspicious. “Were you planning on attacking Harry from behind? You should know he’s got eyes on him all over the school. Your precious Dark Lord can’t—”

“Oh, sod off.” Pansy crosses her arms over her chest and relaxes into her most impatient pose. “How do you imagine I’d attack Potter from behind without a wand? Jump at his back and smack him about? Please, I have no use in attacking that idiot.”

“Then what are you—”

A brilliant orange spell erupts in the corridor, accompanied by a loud whistling sound and a flash of glowing light. The force of it in the air knocks Pansy back, and she cracks her head against the wall. She’s out cold.

When she wakes, Pansy’s in an unfamiliar, stifling room decorated in maroon and—“Oh, fucking hell. No. Why in Salazar’s name would you bring me  _ here _ ?”

Angelina’s laugh is lovely; throaty and full. “Right, because dragging your unconscious body to the dungeons where your lot has already threatened to turn us over to You-Know-Who would have been an ingenious plan, would it? Gryffindor common room is the safest place right now.”

Pansy can’t stop the way her eyes narrow, nor the way her lips purse as she studies the other girl. “Why bring me anywhere at all?”

“Would you have preferred me to leave you lying in a corridor to be killed?”

“Your side wouldn’t have killed me.” Bunch of toddlers with wands, as far as Pansy’s concerned.

“Yours would.” She lifts her wand in the air and conjures a beautiful, cerulean-colored owl— _ shite _ , a Patronus—and whispers a message into its ear. When she focuses back on Pansy, an easy smile slips over her lips and curdles the food in Pansy’s stomach. “Heard your dad was out in the battle early on; he was yelling at some of the other Death Eaters. He thought you brought shame on your house for hiding away in the dungeons instead of fighting at his side like a good little heir.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Pansy scoffs, stuffing a lock of hair behind her ear and dropping her gaze to her knees. “Father doesn’t expect me to fight—he wants me to marry and make him wealthier.”

“Well…” Suddenly, Angelina is sitting beside Pansy and she’s hesitating, chewing on her bottom lip until the silence is too overwhelming. “I’m afraid your father has no say in your future any longer, Parkinson. He was killed before I found you—you’re a free witch.”

Killed. Her father’s dead. No longer holding the contract of her life on auction like she’s no more than a broodmare. Something inside Pansy lightens; perhaps that’s what freedom feels like, or maybe it’s the actual magic of the contract she’s been bound to since birth as the sole female heir to the Parkinson fortune. Either way, Pansy’s next breath is light and easy.

It leaves her in the form of a laugh as she rests her head back against the wall. “I’m a free witch, then.”

“You are.” Angelina smiles at her, and for the first time in what feels like years, a true smile finds its way to Pansy’s face. “If you’d like to defect, now’s the time.”

In Pansy’s story, she isn’t the hero. It’s a far more glamorous trait in Angelina.


End file.
